


Bite Me

by Enterthetadpole



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bat wings may or may not be involved, Human Sherlock but not for long, John is not having any of it, M/M, Magical Elements, Neck porn for days, Ok they are, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is not ready for this, Sherlock is out of his depth, Sherlock's sexual history is a plot point, Strangers to Lovers, Tags Contain Spoilers, Vampire John Watson, Writer laughs maniacally, until he is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27901810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enterthetadpole/pseuds/Enterthetadpole
Summary: It started with a whisper of a request through the homeless network. Something illegal yet too beneficial to not take advantage of even with the risk.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 52
Kudos: 79





	1. Quite a Suspicious Conversation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Up_T0wn_Rat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Up_T0wn_Rat/gifts).



> I know...I know...
> 
> Another WIP. However, in this situation I do have a full outline written and have an actual schedule. I know! Shocking, isn't it? Comments, kudos and warm tea are always welcomed. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Tad
> 
> Gifted to Up_T0wn_Rat. I promise that I'll do right by you, and all others readers like you. ♥️

“You’re not what I expected.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock waves away the server while he observes. His eyes downcast as the steam from their cups of tea swirls around them and creates a veil of chilled ambiance that does not belong in the otherwise cozy tea shop. 

“No,” Sherlock replies. The faintest edge of annoyance in the response. “You’re short. You walk with a cane and wanted us to meet in the middle of the day. ”

John snorts as the tension between them not only breaks, but shatters. “You’ve been reading too many Anne Rice novels, Mr. Holmes. Next, you’ll be wanting me to sparkle...which isn’t true either, by the way.”

Not one to be laughed at, Sherlock leans forward in his chair. The attempt to be foreboding is somewhat diminished by the squeaking noise of the overstuffed cushion he's sitting on. John smirks.

“Show me something that will prove your claim.”

That at least wipes the smirk off of John’s face. “Not interested in getting arrested, so no. I assure you that I am what your request called for. If you don’t believe me then fine, but I doubt that you’ll have any takers at my price.”

This is true regarding the price, and Sherlock hates that he's already fighting a losing hand this early in negotiations. Time to employ another strategy. 

“So where was it that you were turned? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The tightness of John’s jaw is there, and then quickly vanishes again. However, it is enough of a change for Sherlock to know that he has hit a nerve. As if he has opened a door into a room that he isn’t allowed, but the person on the other side of it desperately needs not to panic. 

“What?” John blinkes a few times, and then “What did you say?”

“I asked if you were in Afghanistan or Iraq? Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists: you've been abroad but not sunbathing. When you entered the cafe, you noticed a younger woman having trouble breathing, and within seconds you located his inhaler in her purse. So medically trained and with your age, a doctor. An army doctor. Your healing abilities did not completely assist with your war injuries, which tells me that you were turned after you had enlisted, and more than likely were turned right after you were shot. So a vampire outed themself to save your life? I’m sure there’s quite a story connected with that.”

There goes that same reflex of John’s tightened jaw, but this time there's no relaxation into faux pleasantries. Instead for the first instant since John had hobbled in and rested wearily in the overstuffed armchair, there comes the flash of an almost overwhelming intensity in his eyes. The telltale scrutiny - as Sherlock has very properly deduced - of a soldier. A very skilled soldier too. 

“This meeting is over,” John says calmly, and then with far more agility than a man with a supposedly bad leg stands up once more. “Good day to you, Mr. Holmes. I’m in no mood to be psychoanalyzed by the likes of anyone, no matter how much money I’m being offered or - “

A pause as John rolls his shoulders and tilts up his chin. Then a ripple of something Sherlock never expected. Slight pupil dilation. The tip of a tongue as John licks his lips. Arousal mixed in with the indignation. Fascinating indeed. 

“No matter how much money I’m being offered,” John repeats. “Or how brilliant your guesses may have been.”

“I didn’t guess, John,” Sherlock replies. His tone as soft as he can manage since a few wandering eyes from the scatterings of other customers around them start to look their way. “I saw. Just as I saw by how you without a thought met me here without anything more than your wits and instinct to protect you. This could have been a sting operation by the police or a set up to rob you blind...yet you came.”

John chuckles. “And what does that reveal to you then? I’m an idiot? Heard worse if that’s the - “

“It shows that money was always a secondary motivator. You crave danger.”

Another lick of the lips. Confirmation that Sherlock swallows up along with his last gulp of tea. 

“I’ll have you know,” John replies. The subtle huskiness to his voice not unnoticed. “I’ve seen a lot of rough changes since I returned to London. Violent reactions to what you want to become. Been involved in enough risk for a lifetime. Far too much.”

Sherlock lifts himself up to his full height and grabs at both of their coats. The tip for their server left at the now empty table as he moves the scant distance between them to make sure that John is able to hear his words clearly. 

“Want to be involved in some more?

  
“Oh, _God_ , yes.”


	2. A Skull Makes an Excellent Ice Breaker

“Live by yourself then?”

Sherlock’s eyes drift from John towards the main living area of 221b. It’s dusty surfaces and old files overflowing from boxes now seem to not be the best indications of a good first impression. A flit of embarrassment slithers its way into Sherlock’s hands and feet, and with a need to shake away the feeling Sherlock begins to do what lesser people might call _tidying up_. 

“Yes...just...moved in,” Sherlock mutters as he moves a particularly gruesome set of crime scene photos off of the coffee table and onto the floor. “About four months ago…well, obviously I can straighten things out...a bit. If you prefer a more sterile environment for...everything planned.”

John’s lips quiver, but whether into a smile or a frown Sherlock doesn’t look over long enough to ascertain.

“Is that a skull?”

Sherlock nods his head as he now focuses his attention on stacking half-empty teacups and carrying them to the kitchen sink. “Friend of mine. Great for listening when dealing with the less dull cases.”

“You are aware that it doesn’t have ears?”

The question is light and floaty and does similar things inside of Sherlock’s chest. He tries to fight the smile for only a moment before he gives up. 

“Point taken. You’re the better option for when I have one-sided conversations for the future then.” Sherlock turns the faucet, the sink begins to fill up with warm water to start a thorough soak that Sherlock knows he won't get back to for at least the next couple of days. “And try not to be rude, John. He has a name.”

Sherlock assumes that John will ask what the name was, but again John surprises him. Instead, Sherlock hears the clack of John’s cane as he maneuvers his way to the closest chair and sits down. The quiet grunt of relaxation makes the sitting room more alive than it had been since Sherlock first entered its walls. 

“How do you take your tea?”

“With bourbon, if you have it...”

“I do.”

John’s quick-witted and direct. Two qualities that Sherlock hasn’t ever found more appealing than any other trait that crossed his path. Granted, it’s less boring than the alternative. Yet there's a gravitational aspect to the man making himself fairly well at home in his now slightly less cluttered sitting room. The top of the curved walking cane held in a more relaxed grip than the half-hour before and that accounts for something at least. 

“So, the terms of the agreement,” Sherlock calls out while he rummages around in the last place he saw the better quality alcohol. “They still meet with your approval?”

“Yes. However, you may be misunderstanding the more technical aspects of…there are exact things that need to be...”

John trails off in a way that Sherlock associates with soon-to-be primary murder suspects. The same hesitancy of words carefully chewed before being spit out. 

“You draw blood by vampiric bite until I am sufficiently drained to reanimate as undead. What is there for me to misunderstand?”

John rolls his eyes, which was a gesture that Sherlock is very familiar with when communicating with regular humans. Evidently visual forms of exasperation are not a trait lost when being changed. 

“Have you read any actual scientific books on vampire kind? As in _The Manner of Being Bloodbound_ by David Barkley or _The Life of the Fanged_ by Natalie Thurman?”

Sherlock blinks, feeling momentarily thrown. What a horrible feeling indeed. 

“This explains a lot,” John continues, his eyes shut and index finger and thumb massaging the bridge of his nose. “If certain acts are not performed during the initiation of my bite there can be consequences. Some of these consequences are incurably fatal, so we need to talk about what’s required before we go any further.”

There’s a small part of Sherlock’s mind palace dedicated to thinking things through before acting on them. John’s nestling into that nook, and staying for a while so it seems. 

“I’m up for any asinine task to get me to vampire status. Full stop.”

John opens his eyes to cast a very doubtful glare into Sherlock’s haughty direction. 

  
“One of the _asinine tasks_ is that we have sex during the procedure. Still up for it now?”


	3. Drinks are for Closers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is here. *fanfare and confetti and all that sort of nonesense*
> 
> In all seriousness though, thank you to all of you who read, give kudos, leave comments or just lurk in the background. You're amazing!

There are very few times in Sherlock’s life that he hasn’t known how to respond to a situation. His ability to read people is what makes him unique and very very good at his job. John is watching him for a reaction that is akin to a canary let loose in a coalmine. His steady arms prepared for Sherlock to either die from the hidden poison that came with unexpected intimacy or to sing like the pretty bird in a cage that he is. 

Neither choice is one that Sherlock is excited about, and John can tell this as well. 

“I have it on good authority that the practice of sexual intercourse during the vampiric process is purely tradition-based. The actual medical need for it is marginal at best.”

“And do you have credible sources for that information, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock takes a quick inventory of his memory. He pulls up files connected with names and faces that are within his homeless network, which are dodgy at best. None of them are vampires. 

“It is true that a human can be turned without sexual stimulation,” John concedes, and Sherlock mentally breathes a sigh of relief. John quirks his eyebrow as if he still registered Sherlock’s sigh, but continues anyway. “I am...in a manner of speaking...living proof of that. I was turned on the battlefield. However, the change itself was more painful than the bullet wound, and there are complications from it to this day that I deal with. I refuse to have anyone go through even a fraction of what I went through if I can help it.”

Sherlock becomes aware of John’s glass of bourbon and tea still in his right hand. The idea of drinking it himself is getting more appealing by the second. 

“Fine.”

John eyes him warily. “Fine?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, finally surrendering the drink to John and heads back into the kitchen to search out something for himself. A vintage red wine comes quickly to mind. “It’s all fine. If sex is necessary to ensure a smooth transition, then so be it.”

“You make it sound as if you’re headed to the gallows,” John mutters. “If it helps though...from documented studies and my own...personal observations...those who engage in sex while bleeding out tend to heal faster after injuries afterward and heightened olfactory and auditory senses. I could go over the biological reasoning behind it, if you’re interested.”

The doctor sits up a little more in his chair, his expression hopeful. Sherlock wonders how many humans John has pierced with more than just his fangs.

“Is explaining the medical necessity of penetration your preferred method of foreplay?”

He finds the Merlot he’s been after, plunges the corkscrew in, and starts to turn it. The visual is not helping either one of them at all. ****

“Well, it depends on the partner I suppose. Gives us something to chat about until we have our clothes off.”

The cork slips out with a resounding Pop! and John chuckles again. Sherlock’s more than convinced that his own cheeks are the same color as the wine. The bouquet is a medley of equal parts spiced vanilla and unintentional innuendos. Sherlock pours it all into a hastily found wine glass and gulps it down in three large swallows. John makes a noise of concern.

“Hopefully that’ll be your only glass...alcohol thins out the blood. Splendid for stroke prevention, but not the best course of action for what we are about to do.”

Sherlock nods because it seems like the most logical thing for him to be doing. He’s had sex for way less personal gain than this. A few quick thrusts for an unending life full of abilities that only vampires possessed. More than worth it. 

“Right,” Sherlock responds and places the empty wine glass on the nearest surface. “The bedroom is down the hallway. I’d prefer us both have a shower.”

John gets up and stretches out his bad leg. “Indeed. Shall I go first?”

Sherlock hums in agreement. “I’ll put in an extra couple of towels for you to dry off and leave you the spare bathrobe.”


	4. You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile...Or Actual Clothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showers are not much fun when you are running around the halls of your mind palace in a panic.

So this is _actually_ happening then.

The brunt of this reality hits Sherlock at the most inopportune time. His naked arse bumps the back of the tile shower and he yelps at the chill, and then tries and fails to get a grip. Sex in exchange for immortality. He’s done way more for way less payoff in the past. This is doable. _He_ is doable as well according to the way John Watson so casually throws intercourse against the wall to see if it sticks. It helps that John is easy on the eyes and clever enough to not make Sherlock want to jump out of the nearest third-story window. Definitely, a bonus when the exchange of bodily fluid is involved. 

After a good scrubbing of all essential areas, Sherlock washes his whole body twice more for good measure. He follows that up by drying off and brushing his teeth before he grabs his towel, ties it around his middle, and then pads out of the bathroom. John stands in the kitchen and flashes what Sherlock deduces as an _interested_ expression. It causes Sherlock to feel heat in areas that are markers for titillation. Cheek and pelvic region specifically, and it’s beneficial that John Watson can only see the former on full display. Erections in the same place you cook morning sausages are rarely a good mix.

“Meet you in the bedroom,” Sherlock says with as much casualness as can be mustered while mostly naked. Then he turns on the spot making sure to put a firm hold onto the front of his towel to stop any accidental slippage. No need to show his arse before the time allotted. 

After a couple of steps into the aforementioned bedroom, Sherlock connects with a severe lack of preparation. His room is somewhat less cluttered than the other parts of the flat. This is mostly due to his need to not give his transport even the slightest opportunity to shut down into the folds of an incredibly comfortable mattress and boxspring. Sleep is for the dull and weak of mental fortitude. Sleep is for the likes of Mycroft, and he’d rather swallow barbed wire dipped in lemon juice before doing anything that his older brother sees as valuable. 

At least not without a fight. 

He hesitates when his hands touch the tucked-over part of his towel. The bunching of fabric is a bridge between the last brush of modesty and full frontal floppage. He wonders vaguely if penis size is a deal-breaker and if he should have deduced John’s positional preferences. Sherlock isn’t a virgin, but his sexual escapades are not vast or deeply colorful. First-hand experience is on the doctor’s side and Sherlock isn’t a fan of the other party in any situation having more knowledge than himself. 

The sound of the shower has Sherlock realize that he is running on borrowed time. It’s doubtful that John is going to spend endless minutes rethinking all of his life choices as he washes. John - with his confident stride and tawdry implications. John - with his nuanced smiles and intriguing history and Sherlock feels way too hot and bothered to continue down this path of thought. 

He whips off his towel under the guise of cooling himself down from what he will thoroughly blame on the faulty heating in the flat. Something after all of this is over he’ll complain pointedly to Mrs. Hudson. He runs a hand through his still drying curls and faces the full-length mirror and turns to the side. His slenderness is offset by the curves of his arse and his cock is well within normal size for the average male so this should be fine. Besides, the goal for all of this nonsense is to fuck until death by blood loss. It’s not about losing one’s mind to the pursuit of climaxes, although that’s a possibility.

“Knock knock?” comes John’s voice from the closed door, and Sherlock swallows back what may or may not have been a whimper of what the world’s only consulting detective may or may not make when completely out of his depth. 

Nevertheless, he’s too stubborn and eager for immortality to let a little thing like jumping off the edge of an otherwise perfectly nice cliff without a proverbial parachute ever stop him before. He’s Sherlock Holmes and if he’s going to suffer the indignity of orgasm for the betterment of crime-solving, so be it. 

  
He’s totally in - and so will John be very _very_ soon.


End file.
